A Thousand Words
by Sarah3
Summary: Even in the past, nothing stays the same --- *A huge, huge, huge WIP*
1. Default Chapter

Author's note-- this is a huge WIP that started complicated and has grown to mind-bending, waking-me-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night complexity. I have completed up to chapter six, but there's still a lot of work to be done on it, so updates may be sporadic. Many special thanks to Anna & Mindy [I've put your names in alphabetical order, because I didn't know who I should thank first ;-)] for reading this along the way and telling me very nicely that it didn't suck. lol. And yes, I know I shouldn't be starting something new when I still have so many unfinished WIP's, but this was a persistent little bunny, and I still maintain that _Just to Love_ *will* be finished. Soon. *g*

It's rated PG-13 for now, but be aware that the rating might change. I doubt it'll go up to NC-17, but if it does, you'll be able to find it at http://www.sepia-gold.net and http://sarahlouise.livejournal.com

_~Chapter One~ _

Looking back, I can see that it all began with that letter. It was December, the sky was grey and lifeless and my eyes were still fuzzy with sleep. I barely stumbled through breakfast and polite conversation, the winter chill was deep despite the fire in the grate, and there was fury in the wind as it hurled itself against the shutters. Although a newspaper was open in front of me, it was as forgotten as the cold piece of toast on my plate. I ought to have been getting up and beginning the day, but just as I thought of stirring myself, Mary, our silent housekeeper, dropped an envelope by my hand. The neat, hand-written address made my stomach lurch. I didn't usually receive personal letters, and an instinctive voice whispered that this couldn't be good news. I I tore it open with shaking hands and a sense of foreboding. 

All my instincts were answered in Satie's tight, sloping handwriting. He didn't waste any time on pleasantries, and the words stumbled all over the page in the chaos of grief. Toulouse was dead. 

The news didn't register, not in any real sense. Everything seemed small and deliberate--the breakfast dishes clattering about me, the rain splattering the window, a clock clanging nine in the distance. There was a hollow in my heart that must have been sorrow. Dead. Before Satine, I don't think I knew what the word meant. I didn't understand then, you see. Didn't understand how long _forever _is, or the way the future suddenly falls into grey-blue twilight. 

The news didn't surprise me; Toulouse had been drinking himself to death long before I'd left Paris. That didn't help much, though, and the letter fell on the table with the dull thud of grief. I glanced outside wearily. The sky was hazy, shades of winter and grey, and leaves lay on the ground in colourless piles. I shivered as the December wind shook the windows and pushed the fog damply about the sky. Toulouse was dead. 

Another link in the chain of my former life had disintegrated, yet there weren't any tears. Not for Toulouse, not for anyone. They'd all been cried, long ago- they'd almost drowned me in their salty tracks. Yet here I was still, the bohemian carefully disguised with starch and a collar, the poet with shuttered eyes and empty heart. 

Somehow, over the years, I'd found ways to lock away the things that hurt me the most, and there was only one place for this letter. My chair scraped cruelly as I pushed it away from the breakfast table, one step steadily following the other to my quarters at the back of the house. I dug in the top drawer of my desk, finding what I wanted amongst a mess of pens and ink blotters. It wasn't much to look at- a simple key, tarnished with brown freckles. Considering what it held locked away, I sometimes fancied that it should be more; gold and ornate, fastened with a satin ribbon, perhaps. But it was just an ordinary key, no matter how much this offended the poet that refused to die completely. 

This drawer, and what it contained, was the edge of the abyss. I avoided it as much as possible; little wonder that it sighed unwillingly as I wrenched it open. I think I sighed unwillingly, too. Symbols of broken dreams lay neatly stacked within; an illusory order that hid melancholies so deep that escaping them was like outrunning the wind. I'd cried over these items, hurled them at the wall, slept with my face pressed against them wailing for a chance to wake up in a different morning. 

The program from that fateful opening night, wrinkled with old tears. A letter Satine had left on my pillow early one morning. "_Bon matin, mon cherie." _A poem that had arrived on one of those summer nights when day lends the night its fairest face and dresses it in a finery of stars. Satine had waited for me to scribble the final lines, laughing in pink silk. Then the evening-blue had deepened and the poem was forgotten in poetry of our own making; showers of kisses and warm fingertips, cinnamon scented candlelight and mumbled breath. The paper was yellowed, the edges marked with inky fingerprints. 

Deeper down was the manuscript-our story, the one Satine had begged me to write. I'd never had it published; it held too many shadows of my heart. I couldn't bear to hand it over, to share that final piece of her. I couldn't bear the questions and the pity. It was selfish, denying Satine her chance at redemption. I knew that. Somewhere deep down, I suspected I was denying myself the same thing. It didn't matter though. No matter how sternly I talked to myself, I couldn't let it loose. 

Even the silk kimono still lay there, softly folded. It tumbled through my fingers as I held it, slippery as time and memory. Its scent was still fresh as a smile and as it mingled with the heavy mahogany, my heart caved in despite the years. 

Then there was the photo. I can still summon the day it was taken in every detail. Words were my castle, but this photo made me an artist. Expressions, features, every stray strand of hair and delicate eyelash were caught lightly in my mind's eye. Perhaps that's why it has always seemed so… well, alive. After all these years, I've hardened to almost everything else, but this photo… it's like touching the past. 

The past. Sometimes I imagine that time, too, can crack, the same way hearts and dreams crack and break. Sometimes I wonder if there are ways to slip through, places outside memory and faded photographs where those we loved live on. Even after four years, I sometimes hear Satine's voice behind me, and turn with a smile at my lips. There are days when I awake with a poem like a half-remembered dream, and run for the typewriter, forgetting that I sold it to pay the rent one foggy morning. 

That was before I'd foregone Paris for good, when I was struggling to keep a crumbling roof above my head and food on the table, all the while questioning the point of either. It was before I'd locked my secrets away and crept home, to a job in my father's bank and the knowledge that one morning, quite soon, middle age would creep upon me. 

--- 

My return home hadn't exactly been greeted with enthusiasm. It had been winter then, too-almost Christmas, in fact. Itseemed the perfect time to be welcoming home a prodigal son. 

The snow had flung itself at my feet as I dragged luggage and a heavy heart through the streets. Through the frosted windows, I'd seen Christmas trees, decorations, all the trimmings of the season. I'd wondered briefly what a Christmas with Satine would have been like; I think I enjoyed punishing myself endlessly for the sin of being alive and cold and hungry when Satine was gone. The freezing wind froze the tears on my face, but it didn't matter, because I didn't have time for the luxury of hot, coursing tears now. 

Father had answered the door that day, dressed in a suit on a Saturday afternoon. His voice was thin with disdain. 

"Ah. So, you're back. I'm not surprised." He'd turned his back, leaving me to carry my luggage alone as his footsteps echoed in the hallway. 

It's different here. I'd become used to crazy schemes and laughter, but this is a place where you could find a rut and stay in it undisturbed. The house might be big, but it holds its neglect quietly, hiding it in dark corners. The housekeeper misses spots because she knows that my parents don't see the dust as well as they used to, and the furniture in the living room is rubbed and becoming threadbare. It's the kind of musty house that gets left to an ungrateful heir, who sells it immediately and is glad to be done of it. There's money to fix it all, of course, but there's no inclination. 

"It's too difficult," my father says. 

"What's the point-nobody sees it but us." 

Father's getting older, and his voice rasps slightly as he rants and yells. He fills his space less impressively now; there's a hint of a stoop to his shoulders. Mother is as she always was; a faded blonde butterfly, cowering inside clothes that are fashionable without making a statement. She was always my ally when father wasn't looking, but she'd never found the strength to stand up to him. She'd slipped me Á100 when I'd left for Paris, along with furtive whispers to keep in touch. I'd tried; faithfully posting edited highlights of life on the hill above Paris, hoping that they reached her. 

She doesn't fight for me anymore, though. It's as though my loss has communicated itself to them, insidiously. They're tired; I can feel it in their shuffling footsteps and murmured conversations. 

I have quarters at the back of the house; a bedroom, this office, a sitting room. It's all dressed in shining antique furniture that isn't comfortable, but which might have cast a lovely glow about the room if the sunlight ever reached it. 

It isn't all bad. It's a far cry from Paris, where the roof leaked and my one blanket was falling into holes. There are acquaintances at the bank who are almost friends. They're not Toulouse and I'm thankful for that, because Toulouse would've called me on the shadow I'd made of my life. They don't, they just invite me home for dinners and Sunday lunches, parading their carefully dressed children about as though a slice of family life might be just the tonic I need. I just smile politely on these occasions, feel welcomed yet know I don't belong. I praise the new dining table and the roast beef, offer an unconsidered opinion on the best school and what colour to redecorate the entrance hall, but it's a thin charade. 

I didn't care on the day I stepped of the train, and I haven't come to care in the years since. This isn't living, but it's a life-one I can survive, if not celebrate. My scars set me too far apart to allow anything else. Living like this is necessary, I say. It keeps angry landlords and well meaning friends away, but it keeps other things away too. Coughing, sawing breaths; walking the line between life and death with rose petals in my hair. The way blood stains pure white fabric. 

Yet even here, amongst all the chilly mahogany and wealth, my mind still strays sometimes. I can't help it; I'm a refugee in a land that is safe but strange, and sometimes I long for days full of poetry and bright lights 

I know they whisper about me, my family and acquaintances. They wonder at the depth of my silences, and about the way I make the piano ache with melancholy late at night. They wonder what stole the light from my eyes and the lustre from my dreams. They don't ask anymore, but I overhear their earnest conversations sometimes. There's always that thrill to their voices, telling me that the speculation delights them far more than the truth ever could. The truth would leave them nothing to wonder over, and they enjoy wondering; they're dogs tearing at a bone. 

_Yes, he's never been the same since he arrived back from Paris. Mopes about, you know. Needs to pull himself together. No, nobody knows why, although of course, you hear the most dreadful stories. The things that go on over there! One wonders what he might have been mixed up with… _

--- 

The photo's still there, staring up at me quietly. Despite its frayed edges and old-tea colouring, it scares me. It sweeps me up in such desperate sorrow that I feel myself draining away, becoming a shadow. That's when I know there's no real end to this tunnel. There are sunny days and candlelight but always, always beyond that lies darkness. This photo just confirms that I can try to outrun my grief, but it still lurks around every corner. But I'm feeling reckless today and I refuse to avert my eyes. 

Satine and I stand in the garden of the Rouge. It was one of those summer days where nightfall is like slipping into a deep, dark pool, and it shows on our faces-relief mingled with exhaustion. It's an unexceptional photograph, really. The composition is flat and the shades are too dark. Only hindsight makes it special. Despite the pain, today I can't help but smile when I look at it. 

Photography was one of Harold's enthusiasms. In those black and white squares, he'd found the perfect combination of showbiz razzmatazz and plain old business opportunity. All he needed was a photographer willing to hand the world a peek behind the red curtain; the costumes, the lavish sets, the tale of forbidden love. And, of course, Satine, the dazzling centrepiece of it all, the one who would set the ticket sales jumping. 

I'd hated the idea. The thought of having everything I held pure-my work, my love- sold off before a camera revolted me. I refused to be involved, beyond one obligatory, brooding photograph. I couldn't leave Satine to walk home alone, though, so I'd sat outside in bad grace the whole afternoon, twirling cigarette papers in my hands and throwing the scraps on the path. The heat made me irritable, my clothes scratched at me and the bench I sat on was hard and uncomfortable. It all dragged on until one by one, the cast succumbed to the haze of late-afternoon and there was nobody left but Satine, the photographer and I. 

It was all Satine's idea. It had seemed unlike her, at the time-- she wasn't usually sentimental. She'd insisted on this, though, grabbing my hand and dragging me through the garden, whilst charming the photographer into cooperation and secrecy over her shoulder. 

_"It's a great secret. If you could just deliver the picture at noon tomorrow -and don't let anybody see you!"_

There I am, four years younger, my face alight amongst the creeping shadows. I'd almost forgotten that I could look so--unburdened. I smiled easily, my arm slung around Satine's waist. It was a stolen moment; one we could be natural in, and there's not a hint of foreboding. If there had been, perhaps I would've held her more tightly, would've kept one eye on her even as the photographer demanded we smile. My hair's a damp mess-summertime hair, and there's a smudge of ink like a shadow on my cheek. Satine had laughed about that later, affectionately exasperated. 

"My poor Christian, always with his head in the clouds. Whatever will the fashionable citizens of Paris make of our great writer, all smudged ink & floppy hair?" she'd teased. 

As always, my focus drifts back to her. This photo stood apart from all the others. I had pictures of her trapped in glitter & lace, fiery & innocent, lost & found. Flirting, pouting, smiling sweetly, playing every pretence. But this one was just the Satine I'd known in the quiet moments before dawn. As the camera had clicked, she'd whispered something. The picture had just caught it, and even though the words were lost, I could still feel the rush of breath against my cheek, warm and soft like spring. Even now, I silenced myself as I held the photo in my hand. It seemed to quiver, and I strained to catch those lost words. 

There was nothing though. Not a sound, not a murmur. There never was, just the drumbeat of blood in my ears. Disappointment squeezed me in its vice, and I threw the photo back in its locked drawer, leaving us to smile on endlessly in our immutability. 

--- 

I suppose it's still there. Paris, that is. I wouldn't know- Paris now seems like a mythical place, more metaphor than fact. It's become a symbol of my loss. I remember the colour, though-the bursts of flowers at every street corner, the skirts flashing on the dance floor, the electric avenue that was Boulevard de Clichy. When I dreamed of Paris at all, I dreamed in colour. No doubt, though, the Seine still flowed majestically about the city and people still brushed shoulder-to-shoulder along the narrow streets. Perhaps they still flooded the shiny boards of the Rouge, those citizens of sin, stamping their feet to their own rhythm, wild and lost in expectation and painted debauchery. It was oddly comforting, to think that it might not have changed. It was still a place that Satine would've recognized. 

--- 

The days picked up speed; I'd designed it this way, to hide the empty moments. In the forced rush, I forgot that the photo lay mouldering in the darkness. This was how I'd survived the past four years. Not by being strong, not by rebuilding the shattered pieces into a life, but through frantic busyness. 

By 6pm on a Friday the decanter of whisky was the only thing in my office worth looking for. A quick nip before dinner; a habit I'd fallen into easily. The drawer remained safely locked up and if the photograph was not exactly forgotten, it was at least out of mind. 

Nonetheless, it found me. I almost placed my whisky glass on top of it, buried as it was amongst the scattered papers. A single lined corner peeked out. 

I'd put it away; I was sure of that. Yet here it was. My thoughts picked up speed, jumping back three nights. I'd been standing here, I'd opened the door, locked it-- the key was still exactly where I'd left it. Surely I'd put the photo away-- hadn't I? 

There was the tiniest hint of a shiver about me as I picked it up. It felt warm, as though it had been lying in the sun all day. The light was dim; it was dark outside and Father wasn't much for electricity. Lamps bathed the room in an antique glow, forcing me to peer very closely at the photo. There was electricity in my fingertips, it made me feel as though there was something terribly important that I'd forgotten. 

My nose grazed the paper in my eagerness. I'm not sure what I was looking for-did I hope to find something, or to confirm that nothing had changed? I don't know, and it was irrelevant anyway, because something _had_ changed. We were still there, still frozen on the page, but spilling across the sepia was the faintest trace of colour. 


	2. Chapter Two

Author's note-- thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews. *beams* You made my day, all of you. :-)

_~Chapter Two~_

Colour. It had been missing from my world for so long, and now this-a splash of pink on our cheeks, the green grass. It was like the harsh edge of a scream, abrupt and unsettling.

I hadn't realized I was shaking until the photo fluttered from my hands, falling onto the thirsty Oriental rug beneath my desk. The rug was woven of deep reds and blues, thick and rich. It was designed to make an impression, but it was the watercolour tones of the photo that seared my eyes now. The rest of the world might as well have been daubed in grey. Colour. Who had ever heard of colour photography?

I needed that whisky now, but instead I crouched beneath my desk like a child searching for imaginary friends. There it was, lost in the darkness. I tensed as I loomed over it, daring its truth to reveal itself. But if it was a figment of my imagination, it was a persistent one. The traces of colour were faint but undeniable; a slight rosy hue delicately stained Satine's red dress; the clouds were dipped in eggshell blue.

Blood pounded my heart and washed away my reason; I felt dizzy and sick and the pain of not knowing wrenched out a burning sob until I wanted to scream and scream for answers. What was this? Was I going crazy? Normal people didn't see things like this, they just didn't. Photos didn't change. They were just moments locked up, the key thrown away. Photos couldn't just … come to life.

I gave it voice. It was a desperate wish tossed out from the emptiness of despair, but I gave it voice. What nobody ever told me is that mourning stops being romantic after a while. It even stops being passionate. It becomes tedious, but it's got you by then, so you keep on making the same wishes and crying the same tears. The thought of grief brought to life, strange paranormal activities? Well, that was just too much to resist. I had to pander the thought, just a little. That's all it took.

"Christian? What's taking you so long? Supper's being served."

My father's voice was tense in the hallway, but it seemed distant and barely relevant. I leaned closer to the picture and the air grew thin, hardly enough to support me as my walls fell away. The dust motes in the air sparkled, like fairy dust and stars on deep, dark Parisian nights; things that I knew about from a world I'd visited once. Those faint colours suddenly exploded in firework blues and greens, swirling about me like troubled dreams. I tried to pull back, but it was much, much too late.

--- 

"The heat--- he must've fainted. Christian…"

A cool hand touched my forehead, and I shuddered. The voice fluttered about me like butterflies. It smelled like summer and as the words became clearer, the shiver stopped dead in its tracks. I squeezed my eyes shut before they had a chance to open.

I knew that voice. I knew it, and yet I didn't anymore. When I heard that voice now, it was in nightmares, gasping through blood and choking breath. I hadn't heard it like this in four years.

"Christian? Chris, are you all right?"

No, I thought, my eyes defiantly closed. Fear edged in, cold and slick like a tear running down my cheek. No, I am not all right. Not hearing that voice, not dreaming this dream. The nightmares hadn't visited me for years; once upon a time they'd left me clambering over waves of pain every night, but they'd been replaced lately by a dull ache. But Toulouse's death, that photo- they had brought it all back. That must be what it was; I was caught halfway between a dream and the hard wooden floor of my office.

My eyes flicked open, tentatively. A dash of blue filled them, and I squeezed them shut, my heart pounding in the darkness.

Another voice, a male this time.

"He'th awake, he opened his eyes. Cwisthian?"

I opened them again. The sky was a deep and endless blue, falling away forever to the edge of an early evening sky. Something scraped my vision every few seconds: the windmill wings of the Rouge.

A curse leapt from the back of my throat and died on my lips as panic galloped. I couldn't scramble backwards quickly enough, my hands scrabbling on the slick grass. What was going on? Colour where there should have been none, life where the windmill wings should've stopped turning. Toulouse. Satine…

It's a dream, a dream. I buried my face in my hands and repeated it like a mantra. Perhaps those were the magic words that would wake me up. As a boy dreaming my way through school, I'd believed that if the sky was blue or I saw three white horses on the way to class then I wouldn't be scolded for my dreaminess in class, there'd be chocolate cake for tea and Father would be in a good mood. I wanted to hand over all my white horses now for this to just go away.

I peeled my eyes open. Satine knelt next to me, concern flooding her face and curls tumbling down in the breeze. Her dress was the red of poppies in bloom but otherwise identical to the watercolour tinged photograph. She radiated soap and barely-there perfume, drowned in the damp warmth of a summer's evening, sweat and salt and warm cotton.

I whimpered, confused, felt myself falling and pulling away, wanting to resist and succumb at the same time. She seemed so real, and there was bliss in the idea of burying my face in her shoulder and letting her curls wipe my mind clean of the fear, the knowledge that this couldn't be real. Maybe I'd be giving into some sort of surreal temptation, but four years worth of longing and loneliness might leave for awhile, and maybe there'd be hell to pay tomorrow, but it might be worth it.

_We could be heroes… just for one day_

I leaned slightly closer, and her warmth was like firelight and red wine on winter's evenings. It made me remember forgotten dreams. Why couldn't it be real? Nothing in my life had been solid and warm in so long. The shape of her arm seemed like a miracle- the way it filled the space, pushing aside all that empty air defiantly. The grace and certainty of its movement! The line it traced against the sky was more concrete than anything that London held. My hand moved inch by inch across the dreamy sky, uncertainly coming to rest on the curve of her hip.

I caught myself just in time, dropping my hand sharply. This hallucination had teeth. it could send me spiralling back to the bottom of the hole I'd dragged myself from for four years. Whatever this was, it wasn't real, but the pain would be there when it eventually ended. I'd learned self-preservation the hard way, but I'd learned its lessons well.

My confusion didn't seem to faze her. Perhaps she took it for a headache, a fever, whatever it was that had caused me to faint.

"Christian!" Admonishment was mingled with relief but she tried to disguise it all under a laugh. Her voice fell like a waterfall, cool and clear.

"You scared me. Are you all right? Why didn't you tell me you were poorly-we didn't have to finish this today. Or you could've gone home and got some rest-- you look terribly tired. You should have told me!" The words rushed and fell, crowding the air, and I searched for a place to breathe amongst them all.

She reached a hand out to me, and I scrambled backwards, toes over heels, finding a voice from somewhere.

"No…don't…can't you see I _can't _just let myself believe…no matter how much I want to. It'll drive me mad…" A cry pierced my words and made them urgent. My eyes wouldn't leave the ground, drifting over leaves, a stone, a blade of grass. I kicked the stone, and the shock as my boot connected with it felt like electricity. It rattled and rolled away, obeying every natural law.

_It's a dream_

"Christian? Are you--I don't understand."

Our eyes almost met then, her standing uncertainly as though she barely dared to claim this spot for her own, me cowering in a frightening world.

"I… neither do I," I mumbled, backing away. "This isn't real. It just can't be."

The ground was hard beneath my heels as I fled.

---

I suppose it doesn't make a lot of sense that I headed straight for my old garret. After all, this was a dream, wasn't it? Or a product of my insanity. At any moment I could find myself running through London's East side, or darting amongst the sunbathers on Costa del Sol. Why should I suppose that my shabby old flat was where I thought it should be?

It was though, every stick of furniture exactly as I remembered it. The curtains were drawn, and the room was stale with sepia evening light. I collapsed onto the old armchair in the corner, wincing as the horsehair scratched my arms through the torn upholstery. There was a hole the size of a ten-pence coin in the grubby armrest; I used to know to avoid it. My head dropped to my hands, and I watched dispassionately as blood trickled down my arm.

I didn't understand what was happening, but it terrified me. I was conversing with a dead woman. Not only that, I was running scared from her, and although every rational thought told me it was just a dream, those very thoughts told me it wasn't. Rational thoughts held no space within a dream. What kind of nightmare gave you room to sit down and wonder how to escape?

If it wasn't a dream, then I was crazy. I didn't feel crazy, though. I ticked them off on my fingers, the shreds that proved my grip on reality. My full name. My address. Date of birth. The date I arrived in Paris, the date of Satine's death. I knew them all. It's just that I was here, talking to people I shouldn't have been talking to, thousands of miles away from where I should be. And I didn't know how I'd got here.

My eyes drifted about the room-- it was so peaceful here. Not like home. It was quiet at home, but never peaceful. You always felt like you were on the brink of something catastrophic there. But here--under different circumstances, I would've felt calm. Sheets of paper hung from the walls, typed-up scenes covered in pencil scribbles. A mirror above the fireplace; Satine used to check her makeup there every morning, giggling that it wouldn't do to show up for rehearsals with lipstick smudged. There were photographs on the mantelpiece-

Photos. Photos from the past, memories come to life. Photos. It all had to do with the photo, the one I'd put away but which had found me again. I'd been holding it, looking at its odd colours, and then the world had spun and I'd found myself here.

My mind started moving very quickly. H.G Wells. _The Time Machine_. I'd devoured all those fantastic tales and the dreamer in me had longed for a real-life parallel. Even as an adult, I'd wanted to believe it; I'd dreamt sometimes of Satine and wondered what I might do if there was a way back. What if---what if I'd found one?

I thought it nervously, and shoved the idea away. Don't even think it, my instincts screamed. Don't let yourself believe it might be possible. It was preposterous. Fiction was fiction, and time just doesn't get pulled apart and sewn back together again. My glance fell on the calendar above the mantelpiece.

_August 2, 1900._

I pulled my diary from my jacket pocked, folded open at today's date.

_December 12, 1905._

The evening was steady and quiet and dark. There was not a sound from the streets, not a flicker in the candlelight. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on steadily tick, tick, tick. Was this just another piece in my deluded charade? Even if it were true, how long would it last? Was I here forever? Was I meant to find a way to save her, and save me along with her?

I didn't have time to ponder it any further; the door creaked and opened. Satine stood there, worry all over her face. It lessened only slightly when she saw me there. She paused just a second, and then her words came in a torrent.

"Christian, thank God you're here, I didn't know where you'd gone. I've been looking everywhere. I went to the Rouge and you weren't there and then Harold-oh, never mind." She paused, taking a shaky breath.

She looked tired and defeated. Her arms were wrapped about her as though she were cold, despite the heat, and I felt hollow with longing. How had I not seen it? The dark circles under her eyes, the cough that never quite went away. I remembered a long ago night when she'd taken ill during the evening; I'd wrapped her in a blanket and held her, stroking her hair while she apologized for being so much trouble. She'd finally fallen asleep, curled up with her head in my lap, and so peaceful that I wanted to cry. I'd have given anything to be able to take that haunted look from her face now. Somewhere in the distance, a crack of thunder sounded a warning.

"What's wrong? You didn't even-- you just ran away, why would you do something like that? I was so worried. Are you feeling all right?"

She must've noticed how pale I was, even in the dim light, because her whole demeanour softened.

"You're sick, aren't you? Or something-- something's wrong."

The first patter of rain on the rooftop was warm and soft. The heat was breaking, and with it, so was I. There was so much concern etched in every line of her face. It had been so long since someone had worried over me. Really worried, not just seen me as fodder for gossip.

Striking a match, she ignited one of the lamps on the wall and the room sprung into soft light. She knelt before me, shadows painting her features and as she lifted my face to hers.

"Christian, tell me what's wrong."

I'd forgotten how gentle her voice could be, how tremulous, as though the depth of feeling beneath the words took her by surprise. All I could summon in response was a mute nod, too intoxicated by her hovering fingertips to find anything else.

"Christian, please tell me." She sounded close to tears, and I bit my lip.

I could feel my resistance sliding away. I hated myself for it, but I couldn't help it. The only time I'd ever seen her cry was that terrible night four years ago, but I could feel fear in her voice now. What was I meant to do? I couldn't hurt her. I just couldn't do it, whether this was real or not. And it felt real. It looked real. The sting from the scratch on my arm told me it was real. Even if it was an illusion, a product of my lonely mind, it wasn't letting me go. How long could I be expected to fight it?

My voice was unwilling, I couldn't think of a single thing to say that would explain the crashing insecurity and turmoil raging inside.

"I-- I just--this is--it can't be--"

"Christian, I know it's hard. I know, but we've managed so far, haven't we?"

I shook my head-what was she talking about? She knew?

"It's all for us, Christian, I promise you that. Once the show's over, the Duke will be gone, it'll all be gone, I promise. Things will be different… better. They will, you'll see. Chris, please, just talk to me, don't listen to whatever you hear from Nini and the rest."

She was working herself up to tears, imploring me to believe her. She thought--she thought I'd been about to leave her? The thought shocked me, and it unsettled me to see her pleading like this. How could she think that? The reaction was almost automatic.

"Oh, Satine, darling, no. I wouldn't listen to them, you know I wouldn't. I know what they're like, I know sweetheart." My arms reached for her without thinking, pulling her weight against me as a cry shuddered beneath my hand.

The silence was scattered with her sobs, my shirt collar growing wet with them. When she finally spoke, it was with her face pressed almost against my neck, so close that each word tickled my ears.

"I'm sorry, Christian. You mustn't think I'm sad, I just--"

"It's okay. I know, it's just the way things are." I spoke slowly, recalling all the complicated little pieces of this world.

Tangled hair fell down her back as she lifted her face to mine, leaning forward almost tentatively to kiss me. There was a second, a split second, where I could have pulled back but then her lips met mine and there was no way out. I couldn't have pushed her away then even if I'd wanted to, and I didn't, not anymore. I wanted nothing more than to cling with all my strength to this lost scrap of time. I pulled her into my lap, hands trembling as they tangled in her hair and her weight familiar in my arms. Warmth bled through her summer dress and her taste stained my lips, running over me like honey.

"Christian," she mumbled as she kissed lower, down my neck to the open collar of my shirt and along its outline. "Tell me it's going to be all right, please just tell me that and I'll believe you. I just need…" her voice faded out for a few seconds, slipping quietly into candlelight and more kisses.

"I just need--- reassurance. I'm so tired of pretending." Her voice sounded lost, I could detect the sad notes beneath it and held her tighter as she reached for my buttons, undoing them one by one, warm lips against my skin.

"It's going to be all right" I whispered, my hands searching for all that I'd lost, running lightly down her body as I pulled her closer, slipping underneath the skirt of her dress and stroking her leg as she kissed me more frantically. "It's going to be all right."

I couldn't help wondering whether it was her I was trying to convince, or me.

[Song credits: David Bowie, Heroes]


	3. Chapter Three

_~Chapter Three~_

I lay awake all night, finally slipping beneath my exhaustion as dawn painted the first streaks of silver across the sky. I was terrified that if I fell asleep it would all be gone.

Satine fell into a haunted sleep long before I did. She tossed and turned and clung to me all night, and I was grateful in a way. It helped me to stay awake. I half wanted to wake her, to make the most of whatever time I had left in this strange world. It worried me, though. All the time we'd had together, I'd thought of how much I needed her. I'd never dared to think how much she might need me too, not until it was almost too late. Now that I knew it, how could I leave?

I doubted I'd get much choice in the matter though. The last thing I expected was to wake the next morning to sunlight and Satine's arms tangled about me, her hair flames across my grubby pillowslip. I'd forgotten what it was like to wake up with another person; to hear the soft gust of her breathing and the whispers and sighs of her dreams. To have that presence next to me, that strength and warmth, the unexpected brush of skin upon skin. I'd missed it.

Being here, still, made me want to put faith in miracles again. Every second I spent here strengthened the whisper in my heart. "Maybe, just maybe, I'm not going back."

I sat up carefully, trying to life my arm from hers without disturbing her, but she woke and sighed, burrowing beneath the sheets and into the dent I'd left on the sheets. She was far too much a creature of the night to appreciate early mornings; it was one of the first things I'd learned about her.

I leaned down and kissed her forehead.

'Good morning.'

She smiled drowsily, half asleep still, and I kissed her again, the taste lingering and delicious on my lips. Her sighs and the sunlight pouring in the window were like drowning in a warm pool. All my dreams, my memories-- they'd been a poor substitute for this. I'd dreamt in colour, yes, but not in sounds, not in tastes. I kissed her again, harder this time, and danced my fingers down her forearm, trying to wake her up.

Her breath escaped in a small sigh. "Christian, stop it," she finally protested through a yawn. "You know I don't like mornings."

"Not even with me?" I tried to grin wickedly, and raised one eyebrow at her even though it was all tempered with the stillness of someone who still can't quite believe their luck. She laughed at that, finally opening her eyes and wincing as the sunlight hit them.

"Mmmm, well, you're not much use to me like this, are you, tormenting me and opening curtains. I just don't know how you can be so cheerful at such an awful hour."

Sitting down next to her; the bed creaked under my weight and jumped against the floorboards. I leaned over her, one hand resting next to her face, trapping her beneath me so that she fell into shadows. She looked tired in this light; her eyes drawn and rimmed with dark shadows. With a sleepy smile, she brought a hand up to touch my cheek, trailing her fingers down my neck and onto my shoulders. The sheets were tangled about her, but the lines of her body showed through their thin cover and her persistent warmth and smell of morning and sleep made me dizzy. My head felt heavy and confused. Taking a deep breath, I tried to find my thoughts. Something had been bothering me.

"You didn't sleep well." It was a statement, not a question. "You were tossing and turning all night."

I broke the mood, and she sighed and dropped her hand. My voice was quiet: neither of us had ever enjoyed these conversations much. I nagged too much-are you well, are you tired, where were you, you need more rest. I knew it. Even here and now, I was still doing it. I couldn't help it.

She looked away, staring out the window and speaking quickly. "Mmmm. I had--- bad dreams. No, not bad, just--- unsettling."

I hated this gnawing feeling in my stomach. I knew too much. I couldn't bear to watch it happen again.

She sat up quickly, leaning against me and wrapping her arms about me in a sudden rush of warmth and confidences. "I dreamt that you were gone, and everything… everything was different, and you'd forgotten about me." She kissed my neck, gently, and I tried to freeze frame the moment, the sunlight dappling the floor, making the white cotton bed sheets glow, Paris waking up outside my window and Satine, sitting cross legged on my bed, kissing my neck, talking to me, alive.

"Somehow, in the dream, it all made sense. I knew why you'd--why you'd forgotten me, but I was still upset. I kept trying to talk to you and you couldn't hear me." She shrugged her shoulders. "Those dreams-- they make you feel so powerless. So trapped. Like you want to scream and can't."

I smiled weakly, wishing I hadn't brought this conversation up.

"It was just a dream," I whispered, trying to keep a tremor from my voice. "Forget about it."  
---

Rehearsals were at eleven; it was all the same, and yet different. Maybe there was a message in it all for me, maybe it was just fate playing a joke. I was utterly at a loss. But I was still here, and for that I was grateful.

The dream gnawed at me. It was too close for comfort. Forgotten her. Why would she dream that I'd forgotten her? I hadn't forgotten her. I'd never forgotten her; she lived every waking second with me. And yet…

You've got to go on. You have so much to give. Tell our story, Christian. That way--I'll always be with you

She'd never wanted me to remember her in grief. She'd wanted me to go on without her, to live on through me in joy rather than tears. I knew that, but I didn't need a trip to the past to tell me that. I knew it, but I just couldn't do it. It wasn't that I didn't want to; I couldn't. I didn't know the way.

---

The rehearsal seemed to go well; I was too detached to notice and all I could think about was my next move, as though I were a pawn in a game of temporal chess. I tossed and turned ideas in my head: I knew my fiction well enough to know that I had to be careful, that any false moves could have catastrophic consequences. But I still kept coming back to the same point. I should get her to a doctor, as quickly as possible. I didn't know if it was possible to turn this world upside down, but I wanted to try.

Money was my other concern. Doctors cost money, and that was one thing that had always been in short supply. I thought of the opulence at home, the rolls of bank notes that Father kept in his pockets, and cursed it all now. I used to keep emergency money stored in a little wall cavity behind my bed- the bundle of ten pound notes Mother had slipped me as I'd walked out the door. It had been a matter of pride not to spend it, but what was pride, now?

"Nice work, family. Off you all go then, and we'll see you back here at 11 sharp tomorrow."

Harold's booming voice hadn't changed. I scurried off, hanging about in the wings for Satine.

I didn't hear her footsteps behind me, didn't even notice she was there until she slipped her hands over my eyes.

"Guess who?" she laughed, and then noticed my worried face.

"Don't worry-- they've all gone. You look so far away, Chris. " She shook her head at me, mock chiding me, but when I didn't smile back her face dropped. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I-- I need to talk to you."

She raised an eyebrow at me. "So. Talk."

"Not here." I inclined my head towards my apartment. "You know we can't talk here, there'll be someone walking by at any minute."

She sighed, whether out of frustration with me or the situation I wasn't sure. "Very well. Just let me get my coat. Will I meet you there in ten minutes? It might be best-- if we leave separately."

I nodded mutely, and hurried off.

---

My bed was heavier than it looked. I wrenched at it violently, and it moved just a few centimetres, with an alarming creak and a cloud of dust. It'd have to do. I got down on my hands and knees, crawling and sneezing in the dust flurries. It was a mess down here; scraps of notepaper, an old sock, chewed pencils. Amazing how much mess one person can make in a few months. I dug through it all, wishing I'd been tidier for once.

The skirting was loose in the corner, and with a tug it fell into my hands. There it lay, a bundle of ten pound notes. Salvation, perhaps. The door swung open as I was down there, and Satine stood elegantly in the doorway, looking at me with a perplexed expression.

"Christian? What are you doing?"

I jumped, knocking my head and scurrying backwards. She stifled a giggle, and I realised how I must look. My knees and elbows were white circles of dust, and I could feel a streak of dirt across my cheek. I would've laughed, too, but for nerves. I knew how she'd react to what I was about to ask her. Christian, you fuss too much. Christian, I'm fine.

"Oh, um.. well, I was… looking for something." I replied, brushing dust furiously from my knees.

She just laughed again. "Let me guess? A long lost poem? Your favourite pen? Hmm? Am I right?"

I smiled at that, shaking my head.

"You're being very mysterious today. What is it that's so terribly important that you had to spirit me away like this? Not that I'm complaining, mind…" she added as an afterthought.

I sat down beside her on the chaise, not caring that the dust all over me was making a mess of the furniture. It was beyond saving, anyway.

"Um, well." I started, clearing my throat. "You're probably not going to like this---"

"Christian, are you going to fuss again?"

I coloured in answer, looking down at my hands.

"Chris," she sighed. "You're very dear, you know that?" She paused, smiling as she caught my gaze. "You are, and it's, well it's lovely the way you worry about me, but really, I'm fine."

I shook my head, frustrated.

"No. No, you're not." I started tensely. She looked up at me, my tone shocking the smile from her face. I wasn't meant to be so bold-- that wasn't part of the game we played. I was meant to pretend I didn't see what was clear.

"Well, you're not. You know it yourself-- you don't sleep, you fell from the swing, you were sick here with me that night---"

"Oh, Christian, those were nothing. I was tired, that's all---"

I shook my head again, and dropped my voice an octave, trying to plead without sounding desperate.

"All I'm asking is that you see a doctor."

She sighed again. "Christian, even if it was necessary-which it's not--I don't have the money for something like that. Doctors do cost money, you know." Her voice was gently teasing, but firm all the same.

I paused slightly. She didn't have any money? What happened to it all-- the jewels from adoring patrons, the handfuls of cash? Did Harold keep it? How was it possible that she had nothing?

"The money doesn't matter. I've got money." I thrust the bills into her hand, and they tumbled to the floor and all over the chaise, falling like confetti. "See? I'll pay. I just--- please?"

A quiet look came into her eyes, and her voice dropped as though ashamed. "Christian, I can't take your money. I just-- it doesn't feel right. I don't want you to feel like you have to--- I can't take it, not from you."

I froze, remembering the night I'd thrown the money at her feet, her tears glittering beneath the makeup and stage lights. If only… if only I'd known then what I do now. I would've done so many things differently.

"Satine, it's not like that, not at all. I just want to take care of you, just for once." A note of bitterness crept into my voice. "You know none of the rest of them would-- Harold wouldn't take you to a doctor unless you were on your deathbed," I choked slightly on my choice of words. "Or, that Duke. Just--please. I worry about you- about how tired you look, how pale. Please, just this once?"

She sighed, and glanced down at the money lying between us.

"Christian, you're being--" she looked up, meeting my eyes. Heaven's knows what she saw there; I was frantic, close to tears. Her tone of voice changed.

"You're being very you," she finished finally, with a slight smile.

My shaky laughter was pure relief. "Is that good or bad?"

"Good. Infuriatingly so, but good all the same."

"So, you'll take the money? You'll go?"

She sighed, a soft look in her eyes.

"All right. Just this once."

---

The doctor arrived mid afternoon. A thin man with eyes that darted about anxiously, he refused to look directly at you when he spoke. Instead, he whispered vague pronouncements at the walls and the floor. He didn't inspire a lot of confidence; his hat was askew and he was wrapped in a brown, shapeless jacket that smelled like the damp of neglected corners and rainy days.

"Now, now--- mustn't fuss---" he muttered as he herded me out of the room.

This time of day, mid-afternoon, always filled me with empty dread. It smacked of nothing in particular, neither cold nor hot, too light to be inside but far too late to make something of the day. Every little thing tugged on my nerves, from the baby wailing next door to Toulouse's well meaning hovering.

"Satine, she ith fine, Cwisthian. You worry too much," he chided, trailing off when I met his eyes with a cold glance.

"She hawdly ever coughs anymore--" he tried again, gamely, and I got up and turned my back on him, glaring out the window instead.

It was like a bad dream. I knew what he was going to say, before the words stuttered from his mouth. The only real question was whether I was too late.

---  
I cornered the doctor when he finally emerged, trying to meet his eyes.

"Well?" I demanded, rudely.

He sighed as though I were creating a terrible nuisance, and fussed with his hat, trying to set it straight while my impatience grew wings. Finally, he replied, sounding terribly bored.

"The young lady is fine, Monsieur. One really shouldn't create a fuss over a little indisposition." He continued fussing with his coat, pulling out a ragged handkerchief and dabbing at his nose as though he'd said nothing at all.

Everything seemed still and ludicrous. My voice, tinged with hysteria, shattered it.

"Fine? How can she be fine?" I spat the word out. "You're wrong. You must've---made a mistake--or---"

His eyes threw out a spark of anger. "Monsieur James, I can assure you, I've practiced medicine for longer than you've been alive, and there is nothing wrong with her that a little rest won't cure. She has a slight touch of influenza, and she's exhausted. That's all." He sounded authoritative at last, as though I'd roused him enough to make a point.

"Now, there's a small question of payment---"

I thrust the money at him, notes splaying from my fingers. He folded it fussily, placing it inside an embossed pocketbook. I barely noticed as he stalked out, his ridiculous hat jammed down hard on his head. My thoughts kept pounding--no matter how I turned it, they were jigsaw pieces that refused to fall into place.

Fine. She was fine. How could-I didn't understand. I'd been so sure I knew what was going on. I was meant to save her- wasn't I? In all my dreams, that had always been the script. Now, everything made less sense than ever.


End file.
